


a need to be weak

by Damkianna



Category: Pawns & Symbols - Majliss Larson, Star Trek - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antagonism, Begging, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fingerfucking, Kneeling, Knifeplay, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26204761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: She had feared it at every moment, at first. Every time someone moved past her workstation, every time she looked up at a Klingon figure, she had expected it to be Tirax.But evidently her work here with Aernath was important enough that she would go unmolested. She was so relieved for it that by the time the Klingon working day was over, the sky dark and the stars bright, she returned to her room and opened the door without a moment's pause, braced for nothing more exciting than undressing and climbing into her bed.She should have known better than to lower her guard.As it was, she was already inside, halfway across the room, the door closed behind her, before she realized he was there.
Relationships: Jean Czerny/Tirax
Comments: 9
Kudos: 4
Collections: Femsub Semi-Flash 2020





	a need to be weak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> I can only hope this is something like what you were looking for from that amazing selection of freeforms, Sandrine, plus or minus that prompt about Kang (maybe) giving Jean to Tirax! Happy FemSubEx. ♥
> 
> Title adapted from [A Doe Replaces Iphigenia on the Sacrificial Altar](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/89515/a-doe-replaces-iphigenia-on-the-sacrificial-altar), by Robyn Schiff.

By the evening of her first day at the agricultural station, Jean felt almost as though she might be able to bear it after all.

It had lifted her spirits immeasurably to see Aernath again. And, better even than reuniting with him in the first place, they would be working together day in and day out. Jean loved her work, even if she would rather not have been doing it under duress, trapped on the Klingon imperial capital world. To have that again, instead of being locked up on Kang's ship, was worth more to her than she could ever have articulated.

And, best of all, she had seen nothing whatsoever of Tirax, all the rest of the day. She had feared it at every moment, at first. Every time someone moved past her workstation, every time she looked up at a Klingon figure, she had expected it to be Tirax.

But evidently her work here with Aernath was important enough that she would go unmolested. She was so relieved for it that by the time the Klingon working day was over, the sky dark and the stars bright, she returned to her room and opened the door without a moment's pause, braced for nothing more exciting than undressing and climbing into her bed.

She should have known better than to lower her guard.

As it was, she was already inside, halfway across the room, the door closed behind her, before she realized he was there.

She cursed herself, jerking back an unsteady step. She should have known—there was no reason to believe any door in this place was closed to him, when he was here as Kang's personal envoy.

He was leaning against the opposite wall, smiling, cool and steady and menacing. The weight of his gaze was oppressive—he looked at her face, and then trailed that stare down her body, slow, and back up again.

And he had his dagger in his hand.

"Tirax," Jean said, in a tone that made it anything but a greeting. Her heart was pounding.

"You know why I'm here, human," he murmured, voice soft and full of ice. "Say it."

Jean swallowed, and tilted her chin up. "At the station? You're Kang's envoy. You're here to protect me."

"Yes," Tirax said, patronizing, as if she were a tame animal who had performed a trick well. "And do you know what that means?"

Jean didn't answer. Her throat was tight and aching. She could feel her hands trembling.

"It means," Tirax said, stalking a single deliberate stride closer, "that as far as anyone on these grounds is concerned, I _am_ Kang. I am his hand, his arm. I am his authority, in the flesh. And you have been given over into my keeping. You are mine." His smile widened. "He bade me do with you as I pleased, before we departed. Did he tell you that, human?"

Jean drew an unsteady breath, and took half a step away. She was aware, abruptly, of the closed door at her back, of the dimensions of a room which had seemed decently generous in the light of day.

She could run. But where would she go? The staff here would no doubt answer to Tirax, would do as he bid them. She wanted to protest, to demand proof—he had to be lying. Surely he was lying.

Except there was a chance that he wasn't. What had Kang said, when they had dueled on the ship? _Just don't kill her, Lieutenant._ Kang wanted her alive. But that was all. She had been turned over to Tirax's care in one piece, and breathing; as long as she came out the other side the same way, she had no reason to believe Kang would concern himself with the particulars of her treatment.

And even if that hadn't been true, even if Tirax _was_ lying—she had no way to communicate with Kang now, no means by which to reach him. Certainly none that she could access from this room. And probably none that she could access from anywhere within the station, except with Tirax's permission.

She stood there frozen in the grip of these thoughts for a moment too long. Suddenly Tirax closed the distance that remained between them and seized her by the arm, shoving her backward until she came up against the wall just to one side of the door. He pinned her there, and pressed his dagger to her throat; she could feel the cold line of it, a shock that made it abruptly clear exactly how much danger she was in.

"On your knees," Tirax gritted out.

She didn't move.

He cursed at her, lifted his free hand to her hair and tugged at it until it came unbound, and then dug his fingers into it and gripped it tight. She cried out, as he wrenched at it, and helplessly followed where he pulled—dropped, clumsily, to one knee and then both.

He kept her pressed backward into the surface of the wall, the dagger just under her chin so that she had to keep her head tilted back, her chin high. Her back was forced to curve, her chest thrust forward; she flushed, too aware of the position of her body, the way that he was looking at her.

And it wasn't only that. It was a position without good leverage, off-balance. She couldn't push back, couldn't easily rise.

He kept the blade of the dagger against her throat with one hand. And with the other, he began to touch her.

He passed it over the shape of her body without hesitation, without a single qualm, greedy and shameless. She bit the inside of her cheek and made herself bear it, held still beneath the hot ache of his fingers everywhere he paused to grope at her: the hollow of her throat, below the line of the dagger; one breast, her waist; the arch at the small of her back, and then the crease of her hip, her thigh—

She gasped, tensing. Her breath came quick, and oh, it should have been panic. How desperately she wanted to call it panic, and never mind that she had prided herself on _refusing_ to panic in front of Klingons. Because she couldn't—it wasn't—it was fear, distress, that was making her skin prickle so tightly, making her throat dry out and her thighs clench together. It had to be. It _had_ to be.

He pushed her back harder still into the wall behind her. The dagger moved, resting now against the base of her throat instead of just beneath her chin. And she came to the helpless, terrible understanding that she was panting, that she was _wet_ , that uneasy sparking heat was gathering at the base of her spine, an instant before Tirax smiled wider and forced his hand between her legs.

She had been grateful earlier, with Aernath, to take the opportunity to change out of the scratchy silver dress, to trade it for her pullover and tunic. Except the dress had covered her from shoulder to ankle—now she had only the same uniform leotard bottoms she'd been wearing beneath it, and the edge of her long tunic, the hem of the black pullover, were no obstacle whatsoever.

She pressed her thighs together as tightly as she could. It didn't matter. Tirax shoved his fingers between them, pushed in against her through the single layer of cloth. She cried out, frantic, and tried to twist away.

"Stop that," Tirax murmured, chiding, as if she were a disobedient animal for whose antics his patience grew thin. He leaned in close, drew the blade of his dagger up her throat without ever lifting the point from her skin—trailed it up to her chin, her cheek, her mouth, and then pushed the tip of it between her lips. At the same time, he moved his hand again between her legs, pressed the heel of it in a quick hard rhythm against her, and she shook and tensed and trembled. "Come on," he said, quick, an order. "Open up."

There was nothing she wanted less, she told herself, than to follow orders from him. But what could she do? Short of killing her, he could do as he pleased with her; no one could stop him, and that thought shouldn't be a bolt of heat in her gut but it was anyway.

She parted her teeth. He pressed the knife deeper into her mouth, slid the flat of it over her tongue.

"Lick it," he murmured.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and did it.

"So you can follow orders after all, human," he said, with a sharp little laugh.

And then he drew the knife out of her mouth, reached down and caught the tip behind the waist of her leotard bottoms, and cut them open.

Klingons kept their daggers sharp. The cloth parted easily, without resistance. Jean jerked in surprise, reflexive, and then felt the bite of the edge against her skin and froze; and Tirax laughed again, lower, warmer, _pleased_ , and turned it in his hand, the better to press the flat of the blade in closer still.

It was cold, against where she was wet, and she shuddered helplessly. He smiled, and tilted his head, and brought the knife up again, motioned with it and raised his eyebrows—she swallowed hard, but she knew what he wanted, and opened her mouth again, licked herself off the blade.

And then he put it to her throat again and held it there, while he pushed two fingers inside her.

He had broad hands. He wasn't gentle, and he didn't go slow. They felt huge, and she made a desperate sound in the back of her throat and squeezed her eyes shut, dug her teeth into her lip and tensed all over.

He didn't care. He pressed them deep, drew them out, thrust them back in, a steady forceful rhythm—as if this were all she were good for, all she deserved; as if she weren't fit to fuck, as if he simply wished to toy with her and see how far he could drive her to go.

It was overwhelming, excruciating. It was too much.

It wasn't enough.

Jean shivered and shuddered and pressed her thighs together around his hand, and she didn't even know anymore whether she was trying to stop him or trying to make him go faster. He leaned in and growled into her ear, "Ask me. Go on, ask me. _Beg_ me, human."

She bit her lip. She couldn't. She wouldn't.

But it wasn't enough. It wasn't going to be enough, not like this.

"Please," she heard herself gasp. "Please! Another—Tirax, another—"

On the next thrust, he shoved a third finger into her, curved his palm and brought the heel of his hand, his thumb up against her.

And that was how she came. Helpless, thighs squeezing, hips shaking, with him three fingers deep inside her and working her relentlessly through the aftershocks, grinning down at her in vicious triumph, his knife at her throat.

When it was over, she kept trembling. She couldn't look at him, she thought dimly. How could she ever look at him again?

And then, as she knelt there, some deep, hot, fierce feeling began to rise up in her. She wet her lips and drew herself up, raised her chin and opened her eyes, looked him in the face and didn't let herself flinch.

"Will that be all?" she said, and congratulated herself on the steadiness of her voice.

And Tirax looked at her with dark eyes, and grinned. "Oh, no," he said. "I'm not done with you yet, human."

His voice was low, rough. Hoarse. Jean shivered at the sound of it, face hot, and gritted her teeth.

She refused to be grateful to hear it—refused to wonder what he was going to make her beg for next.

She wished she didn't know already, hot bone-deep foreboding trembling through her, that she was going to do it.

But she did know. And, she thought, with a sharp prickle of anticipation, so did he.


End file.
